


The Firsts

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [8]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Chronic Illness, F/M, Fish out of Water, Friendship, Gen, Married Couple, Mentor/Protégé, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:17:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renji receives his position.  Rukia and Byakuya spar, and Rukia makes a surprising discovery.  Renji and Rukia compare notes on their respective experiences as rookie officers.  Byakuya checks on his wife after her treatment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Firsts

Howls.

Cries.

Screams.

_Holy shit, the noise is disorienting._

The loud din swallows Renji.  It eats him whole, and it spits him out with nerves sparking across his body and with composure unraveling.  He can feel the reverberations of a thousand words, of a thousand sounds, and of a thousand gasps as they ricochet around his innards. 

 _Ting, Ting, Ting_ , the sensations go as they hit the bone and rebound, finding another bone or organ to bounce off. 

 _Breathe_ , he reminds himself.  _How does it go?  Oh, yeah.  In. Out. In. Out._

When had he become such a pussy? he grumbles inwardly.

_In fact, isn’t Inuzuri’s motto, “Don’t be a pussy”?_

He’s pretty sure it is. 

Either way, he adopted that slogan hook, line and sinker when he lived in the slums.  Pretty sure Rukia adopted it, too.  It was a way of life.  If you were going to survive the South 78th, you _could not_ _be a pussy_ :  If you were a coward, you died.  If you hesitated, you died.  If you _thought_ too hard or too long, you died.

Basically, his whole life until _now_ was a giant death trap, where instinct meant _everything_.  If you were going to survive the gauntlet that was Inuzuri, you weren’t going to do it staring meaningfully into something as trivial as _mail_. 

Yet, right then, right there, he does exactly that.  Hesitation steels his mind and paralyzes his hands.  All he can feel is his heart clapping in his chest, sending ripples of horror throughout his entire circulatory system.

He can barely concentrate. 

 _Pathetic_ , he reminds himself as he tries to center his thoughts on the carefully folded message. 

The envelope is white and stark against his tawny flesh.  Its artful construction teases him, and his eyes roam the paper, memorizing the eggshell color and the sharp edges. 

He flips it over.  The seal, a deep red with the Academy crest imprinted in wax, keeps the letter’s secret tightly bound. 

 _C’mon_ , he groans to himself. 

But, _nothing_. 

He cannot conquer the fear that comes with unveiling his destiny.  Or, at least, his destiny for the next few years.  Hopefully.  

Hesitantly, Renji’s fingertips brush the seal.  With that simple act, he feels as if he has set his whole damn hand on fire, a cold sort of fire.  The action provokes a cascading sensation of mortification:  His heart flutters a few beats before it begins to race.  The blood rushes from his face and limbs until his extremities feel like he has spent an hour digging himself out of an avalanche.  His pulse, pounding in his ears, blots out the frantic and kinetic energy that swirls around him. 

Now, he knows what Rukia must’ve felt only a few days ago.

Except, he doesn’t have Rukia there to comfort him.  Or, family.  He has friends, but a nervous look reveals they both stand content with eyes firmly locked on their own marching orders. 

 _Must’ve gotten the Fifth_ , his inner voice mutters in his head. 

Momo’s expression is that of pure unbridled _bliss_.  He has never seen her smile so purely and unguarded before.  In fact, her cheeks turn a bright pink at her discovery.

Izuru, too, seems rather pleased with his results.  Although, that doesn’t necessarily mean he drew the Fifth, Renji reminds himself.  Izuru had a few prime choices with the Fifth being near the top of his list.  But, the blond seems his normal cocky self.  A smug look spreads across his face as he replaces the notice in its envelope.  His gaze then meets Renji’s. 

“The Fifth,” Izuru announces, brows up and smile on.  He then gestures to Renji’s notice, nodding his head and jerking his chin in Renji’s direction.  “Your fate, Abarai?” he asks.

Renji’s eyes drop back down to that hideous envelope. 

_Fate, eh?_

Clenching his jaw, he stares _fate_ in its pale white face.  _Might as well be a man_ , he jibes himself, feeling a tinge embarrassed he has been so slow to pull the trigger.

He slips a finger under the fold.

A metric ton of adrenaline rushes through his veins, speeding his heart and tensing each fiber and sinew in his body.  The anticipation is so thick he can barely focus.  His vision goes blurry.  He can hardly breathe, and he is pretty sure his hands are shaking as his fingers fumble with the paper.

_Damn it.  You better not drop it!_

Unfurling the notice, he stares blankly at the characters on the page.  It’s written in clear black ink yet he can’t comprehend it.  His brain short-circuits.  He can hear his neurons buzz and click in his ears. 

He is pretty sure his body is _humming_.  It is an electric sort of humming; the kind that resonates at a constant low frequency.  He might as well have taken a seat on a speaker that’s volume has been kicked up to eleven.

Suddenly, he feels like his whole body has been kicked up to eleven, which proves all too appropriate as he reads the notice. 

“The Eleventh Division.”

 _Aw, shit_.

* * *

 

Rukia heaves a heavy sigh as she retreats from a large blast of fire.

 _Cripes! I’m not a Vice Captain,_ her thoughts blare in her head as she evades another high-level kido spell.  What the hell is her brother preparing her for?  A battle against a Menos Grande?

Reflexively, she bites out a mid-level kido incantation to put some space between him and her.  It is no use.  He pins her hard and fast, and she evades another long-ranged attack just in the nick of time.  A hairsbreadth too close and a second too long and she would have been a puddle.

She darts into the forest, flash-stepping from limb to limb.  But, resorting to flash step is a fool’s errand, and Rukia knows it.  Very few—maybe certain members of the Stealth Force and some of the elder captains—could match the breakneck speeds of Byakuya’s flash step. 

Rukia certainly cannot.

 _What has gotten into him?_ She wonders as she comes to a complete stop, realizing that changing pace will buy her a few precious seconds.

_Is it because…_

Before she has the chance to finish her thought, she deflects a melee attack with a well-timed counter. 

At least hand-to-hand combat suits her better; although, her brother-in-law’s swordsmanship outclasses her own, he is quicker to adjust for skill level.

 _He expects a lot out of my kido_ , she thinks to herself between moves and countermoves. 

 _I wonder if_ …

With a startling clarity, Rukia considers if he is pushing her to the brink for a _reason_. 

_No way.  He wouldn’t think… Me?_

She misses, and, for a moment, her heart is in her teeth.  She can almost feel it beat against her tongue.  Muscle memory saves her from a particularly devastating blow, and she dodges.

It isn’t pretty, but that’s the point.

Reflexively, her hand grips her hilt.  Panic, cold and swift, courses through her, and she swears she feels her body temperature drop several degrees.  She is almost… _freezing_.  Shivering.

A whisper tugs at her ear, but she brushes it off as nothing more than the wind.  Indeed, between nature and the beating of Brother’s and her reiatsu, the trees are swaying violently.  Their leaves, the color of rust, crimson, and amber, rustle and fall. 

Another attack, and she is on a knee.  Her palms press tightly against the brown stitching of the hilt of her Zanpakutō.  She nearly has each thread memorized; their imprints etch into the sensitive flesh of her hand.

 _Come on,_ she thinks to herself as she summons another spell.  “Hadō #4. Byakurai,” she cries as she blindly flings it into the ether.  To the surprise of absolutely no one, it careens wildly to the left, missing Byakuya completely but decimating a poor unsuspecting tree.

Byakuya, however, appears vaguely amused at her lack of precision. 

“Do not fear it, Rukia,” he murmurs, sheathing his sword.  His eyes drop to her Zanpakutō, which he gives a meaningful onceover.

Trembling, she shares his look.  _What the…?_   Narrowing her gaze, she makes an astonishing discovery:  The metal of her blade has begun to frost.  Granular flecks of ice begin to flake from the steel near her guard. 

_What is this?_

It takes every ounce of her resolve to keep her hand from dropping her blade.  She comes close, but she clenches her hilt with in white-knuckle grip.  Lowering her head, she carefully returns her sword to its sheath.

In a second, her mind is a blur.  Nothing makes sense, but she has a sinking feeling.  Her stomach churns, and her lips part.  Shaking, she glimpses her hands.  Her fingers sting and they are red as if she has been playing for _hours_ in snow without gloves.  But, it isn’t winter.  It’s autumn.  And, it isn’t even cold.  In fact, the weather is unseasonably temperate.

Confusion darkens her face, bends her brows, and pulls her lips into a tight compact line.  Tentatively, she inclines her head and stares wide-eyed at her brother.  The question that colors her face is easily discernable: _What just happened?_

Byakuya studies her state of disarray for a moment.  His look is an intense one; his slate gray eyes are keen but understanding.  He stands tall, looming over her slight frame, but he regards her with concern.  The concerned look isn’t purely _familial_ , but it isn’t strictly _professional_ , either.  It is a sweet combination—the cross between a brotherly superior to a novice officer.  Kaien brandishes the exact expression when he instructs her.

“Listen closely, Rukia,” Byakuya says softly, all the while eyeing her Zanpakutō.  “She is trying to tell you something important.”  He bows his head politely and waits for her to regain her composure.

_She?  As in…?_

It feels like she has run headfirst into a sturdy wall when realization pummels her like a tidal wave.

“Yes, Brother,” Rukia makes up for her moment of dumbstruck in a hurry.  Her consonants slur in her excitement and in her eagerness to convey her gratitude.  Equally as harried, she scrambles to her feet in a flurry of flailing limbs and graceless motion.  Upon standing, she bows deeply at her waist. 

She rises as soon as she feels the cold chill of his wake.  His robes ruffle on the stray breeze that catches them.

Turning on his heel, he pauses but only for a moment, and he gives her a matter-of-fact, “Come, I will return you to the Thirteenth.”

Wordlessly, she trails behind him.  A deluge of thoughts and questions surge through her brain, but she is swift to throw down the floodgates.  She keeps her lips pressed tightly together, and she hangs her head, too afraid that her bright eyes might betray her.

The journey back to Seireitei isn’t very long.  They are only in the Third District, after all.  But, the trek is taken in an uneasy stillness.  Not uneasy for Rukia, who has become accustomed to minding her Ps and Qs in the company of silence.  No, the strange dissonance emanates solely from her usually reserved brother.

The quiet begins to weigh on her.  It grows heavy, and it plucks a discordant note on her nerves.  Unable to take it anymore, her breath escapes the barrier of her lips, and she asks, “Have you heard any news, Brother?” Her voice quivers slightly in the air as she prepares for his indifferent reception. 

He shoots her a short sidelong glance.  “I expect news tonight,” he says bluntly.

Rukia’s gaze floats to the ground, and her brows pull together.  Boldly, her lips part, and she feels her vocal cords begin to tingle.  The vibrations rising from her chest tickle her throat, but she covers the question burning in her mouth with a small dry cough. 

Byakuya reads her cough well.  “If you wish, you could take tea tonight at the Sixth.”

Rukia’s eyes widen and light up at the offer.  “Yes, Brother.”  She halts and bows at his back. 

“I will send a courier once I receive word.”

* * *

 

“You look like you took a hard fist to the face!”

Renji falls back into a soft pillow of clover, and he sighs.  “Yeah, _Rukia_ , that’s because I took a punch to the face.”  He adjusts an icepack against his swollen eye and heaves an even deeper sigh. 

He can almost _hear_ her smile.

“Looks pretty bad,” she teases. 

“Feels pretty bad,” he retorts. 

He hears the soft rustle of grass as she plops down beside him.  Her head is a few short centimeters from his own, and he can feel the weight of her hair settle against his.  He lifts his chin up enough to see that, indeed, their red and black tresses tangle among the weeds. 

“You don’t look so hot yourself,” he kids her in a caustic tenor.

She inhales a sharp breath and feigns indignation.  “What do you mean by that?”

“You look a little rough around those nice noble edges of yours.”

She tilts her head back enough to give him a haughty glare.  “My _noble_ edges are as smooth as ever, Renji.”

He cocks a brow.  He is incredulous.  _No one’s edges are smooth,_ he thinks to himself, _Not after the first week, at least_.  But he digresses.  There is no use in debating with Rukia when she has so clearly dug in her heels.  “So how is life at the Thirteenth?”  He figures it will be a nice change of pace.  Idle chatting tends to provide therapeutic distraction.

“Ugh,” a noncommittal noise draws from the pit of her throat.  “Well, on the first day, I was promptly ushered into a room like I was made of glass.  When I told the guy to treat me like a normal soldier, he got sort of flustered and assured me that he would.” 

 _Then, a bunch of foot soldiers gathered outside the door and began to wonder aloud whether I received the Fifth Seat through skill or noble game playing…_  

Rukia chooses to spare Renji the latter, and she begins again, “Then, I managed to offend my Vice Captain.”

A harsh chuckle erupts from Renji’s chest.  “You did _what_?”  This requires intense scrutiny, he decides, and he promptly rolls over on his side and props himself up on an elbow. 

“Yeah, Vice Captain Shiba gave me this nice greeting, and I just stared at him and said something… _stupid_.  He then excoriated me for my poor greeting.”

“Whoa, back up.  What stupid thing did you say?”  

While his voice sounds a little  _too_ voyeuristic for her liking, she obliges.  “I think I gave him this look,” she says, lifting her head and shooting Renji one of her patented deer-caught-in-the-headlights gazes, “and said something like, ‘Yes, hello.’”

Renji shakes his head at her.  “Good job, Rukia,” he mocks.  “Did you take his order, too, while you were at it?”  He then bats his eyes in the most exaggerated attempt at feminine coyness that Rukia has ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

She gives a small guttural growl.  “Okay, okay, I admit it was weak,” she capitulates, throwing herself back down on the cushion of clover.  “But, his corrections were…”

“Horrifying?” Renji cuts in.

Rukia shakes her head.  “No, not at all.  It was _refreshing_. It felt nice to be spoken to like the brat that I was being.”

“I speak to you like you’re a brat all the time,” Renji observes matter-of-factly.

“Yes, Renji.  Your level of disrespect _is_ breathtaking,” her voice dips into a long acerbic drawl, and she gives him a sharp tug on a red lock of hair. 

He winces slightly, but he meets her reply with a playful rumble.

“I did get to go to the World of the Living,” she adds proudly.

“How was that?”

She pauses for a moment, but her mental banks are empty.  “I don’t really remember.  Must’ve not been anything _too_ interesting,” she concludes, pretending that her loss of short-term memory does not bother her.  “So, how is the Eleventh treating you?” she asks.

He turns his head and stares at her in disbelief.  “Have you seen my face?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

She tilts her head up and observes him with a gentle look.  “Black eye, swollen jaw, and a split lip.  Looks _festive_ ,” she snarks in a cool deadpan.

“On _my_ first day, the Third Seat informs thirty of us new recruits that they have three seats open, and, if we want one, we have to fight for our place.  It was like throwing a ham hock into a pack of starving dogs.”

Rukia’s brows rise at this.  “What?”  Color her shocked.

“Ten guys wound up being hauled out on stretchers, three guys up and resigned that day, and I got a broken jaw, busted lip, black eye, and the Sixth Seat.”

“Good job!” In her excitement, Rukia springs up and lightly punches Renji’s shoulder. 

 _Bad idea._  

He immediately responds by curling into a ball of agony.  A sad cry of anguish falls from his lips, and pain creases his visage. 

“Oh, no, are you alright?  I didn’t mean….  I am…. So…sorry,” she stutters as she gently rubs the spot where she jabbed him. 

“No, no,” he replies in a throaty and broken voice. “I also fractured my clavicle.” 

“Did you go to the Fourth?” she asks, concern clouding her eyes.

He shakes his head.  “The Eleventh isn’t exactly copacetic with the Fourth,” he forces out in a small wheezy breath.

Her brows knit together at this revelation.  “What?”  That doesn’t make _any_ sense.  Who isn’t on good terms with the unit in charge of keeping you healthy?  That sounds preposterous to borderline _insane_.

“Yeah.  Something about kido users and weakness.  I don’t ask the questions or make the rules, I just play along.”  _Or face having a foot shoved up my ass_ , but he omits the last part.

Rukia gives a small grunt and a long shake of her head.  Reluctantly, she scoots closer to her childhood companion.  “Oh, Renji,” she mumbles with an air of profuse disapproval before she rolls up the sleeve of his Shihakushō.  “Here,” she grumbles before applying healing kido to his wound. 

After a few moments, she scrutinizes his shoulder.  Her lips pull to the side as she inspects her work.  “Pretty good, if I do say so myself,” she announces happily.

The relief in Renji is instant.  His muscles relax, and he rolls onto his back.  “Thanks,” he says, releasing the air clenched inside his lungs in a long exhalation.

Rukia shrugs.  “What are friends for?”

Noticing the distant-barely-there look in Rukia’s eyes, Renji asks, “So, you going back to the manor?”

Rukia shakes her head.  “Can’t.”

“ _Can’t_?” he echoes. 

It is clear he finds a logical absurdity in her response. 

“The manor is under quarantine.”

“Is there some sort of infectious outbreak or something?” 

A somber look wrinkles Rukia’s forehead, and she grimaces.  “No.  It’s Sister,” she says in a weedy voice.  She then pulls her legs under her, and, with head bowed, her eyes drop to her lap. 

Renji’s head snaps to the side so that he can better view her.  _Something is very wrong_ , he observes to himself.  “What’s the matter with Lady Kuchiki?”

Rukia forces a small smile and shakes her head again. 

 _She’s forcing her feelings away,_ Renji shrewdly notes.  He’s seen that look a million times.  Knows it better than anyone else. 

“It’ll be alright, Renji.”

He doesn’t call her out on her lie.  He’d only face a perturbed Rukia if he did.  But, he _knows_ something serious is afoot.  Rukia doesn’t say, _It’ll be alright_ , with _that_ look and with _that_ sad little inflection if things are going to be alright. 

“If you need anything,” he begins, but her eyes tell him that she already knows.

* * *

 

“Hisana is recovering,” Byakuya reads, glossing over the missive before folding it half.  He gives an imperceptible sigh of relief before turning to glimpse his sister-in-law in his peripheral vision.

Rukia’s wide eyes sparkle in the dim lantern light.  She seems delighted at the news.  “Good,” she says, exhaling as if she has been waiting with baited breath.

Byakuya turns back to his desk and places the message in a drawer. It will serve as a record of sorts, a painful sort of record.  Its words have been seared into his brain, and they flash across his mind’s eye at a moment’s notice.  _Prognosis:  Good.  Patient is stabilized and resting.  The foreign bodies are undetectable at the present time.  Checkup and reiatsu analysis required in a week._   

The lack of specifics slightly perturbs him.  No mention of how well her body responded to the treatment.  No mention of her current condition.  It merely states she is stable.

Briefly, he peers through a nearby window, searching for anything to distract him, to let his thoughts idle a little. 

The night is dark and moonless.  Cloud coverage is thick and obscures the silvery shine of starlight, like a heavy velvet blanket.  But, even where there are breaks in the clouds, the stars refuse to twinkle. 

How very grim, he thinks.  At least it is not raining.  Rain would be an ill portent, indeed.

His thoughts are quickly interrupted when he hears Rukia stirring behind him.  The soft swishing of fabric tells him that she is growing tired of sitting seiza.  He turns his head and gives her a sidelong glance. 

She looks weary.  Her skin is pale.  Dark gray circles hang under her eyes, and her hair is dull from sweat and humidity.  Yet, as she stares down into her teacup, she seems at peace.  No longer does she sit before him like the frightened or, worse, _whipped_ dog that he knew only a year ago. 

“How is your appointment at the Thirteenth?” he asks, observing the small satchel of papers tipped over on its side next to her.

Her gaze rises, but it stops short of meeting his.  She still will not look him in the eye.  “My first week has been tranquil, Brother.”

“I see,” he says, letting his gaze return to the paperwork stacked on his writing desk.  Unceremoniously, he reaches for another officers’ report. 

It is going to be a long night, he thinks solemnly to himself, and, suddenly, he does not wish it to be so.  “You may stay as long as you wish, Rukia.”

Rukia nods.  “Thank you, Brother.” Her voice climbs a few octaves.  She is likely shocked at his invitation.  Truth be told, so is he.

Feeling equal parts honored and obligated, Rukia hunkers down and begins to read the massive amount of materials that comes with being the newly recruited Fifth Seat of the Thirteenth Division.

It is a long, dark, and _silent_ night.  Even despite his offer for companionship, Rukia keeps to herself.  Never speaks a word.  Never asks a question; although, at times, he can hear her pause, and he can feel the heat of her gaze on his back.  He does not encourage her, however. 

When dawn breaks over the horizon, Byakuya arches his head to find his sister-in-law hunched folded over herself and fast asleep.  He closes his eyes and represses the urge to say something deprecatory.  But, part of him knows such feelings are largely manufactured and do not resound deep inside him.  Despite his upbringing and despite knowing better, a warm sense of amusement flows through him as he observes her childlike features, made more childlike in sleep.  Briefly, he wonders if this was how Hisana looked when she was in the midst of her gangling adolescent period. 

Gently, he scoops Rukia up.  Her body is light and pliant against his.  He carries her to his freshly made futon, and, as gently as he can manage, he tucks her into bed as a parent does a child.  Ever careful not to wake her, he slips out of his room and makes his way to the manor. 

It never fails to annoy him at how easy it is to bypass the guards stationed around the estate.  Ever since he was a small boy, he could outwit them and pass through the property unnoticed.  Even after countless instructions, they still fare no better.

The house staff is far more sensitive to his presence, sometimes unnervingly so.  But, at that early hour, he winds his way through the corridors unobserved, and, for this, he is grateful.  His wife is a light sleeper, any little noise seems to set her on edge.  The last thing he wishes to accomplish is scaring Hisana awake.

Quietly, he slides the door to his wife’s quarters open.  She lays on a futon in the middle of the floor.  Her head is turned toward the wall opposite of the door, but, the instant he crosses the threshold, she rouses. 

He is at a loss as to what, exactly, gave him away.

Caught somewhere between the waking world and the world of dreams, she moves her head in the direction of his spiritual pressure as he takes a seat at her side.  A few seconds later, her eyelids blink back, and she gazes at him.  It is clear that she sees him in the abstract—bleary vision and mental fog cloud her perception—but she smiles warmly all the same. 

“Lord Byakuya,” she manages in a dry cracking voice.

She is pale as the sheets upon which she rests, and she appears sunken and frail. But, the fire in her eyes burns just as brightly as it did when they first met.  The treatment was a worthy opponent, but she managed to out-stubborn it. 

Taking her hand in his, he studies her for a few quiet moments.  “How are you feeling?”

She closes her eyes.  “Better, now.”  She inhales a few shallow breaths.  “A little cold,” she murmurs, peaking at him with a sly glint in her eyes.  “If you wouldn’t mind?”

Before he has the chance to respond, she yanks him down toward her and snuggles against his many warm layers of robes.  “Much better,” she murmurs.  Her lips flutter against his neck with each syllable, sending an electric shock racing from his neck down his spine. 

“They say I am all clear, now,” she says softly.  Her breath ghosts in a warm puff across his skin.

“Good.”

“Maybe now…”  She glances suggestively up at him, too afraid to finish the thought.

“Perhaps.  After your recovery,” he cautions.

A small smile thins her lips, and she closes her eyes. 


End file.
